by Aaron Yeager
“Ah, I see you have returned to us again, my friend,” Tigera Hissledorf said with a smile as he set down his mug. “This is the third morning you have sat at your stool so early.”
The barmaid set down a cup of steaming tea in front of Privet, who accepted it happily. Although he had only known the man for a few days, he had already grown quite fond of his company.
“The only reason you know that is because you’ve been here every day as well,” Privet quipped. “What’s the matter, business going slowly?”
“Ah, I lost my job,” Tigera said, waving his hand dramatically. “Forty-nine is not fifty and all that. You know how the merchant business is.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Privet said, sipping his tea, “but it sounds pretty harsh if you can lose your job over one little mistake.”
“Well, normally you cannot,” Tigera explained, absentmindedly twisting the tip of his goatee, “but this last one I was working for, she’s a real witch, so it’s been kind of a relief, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, women bosses are the worst,” Privet said with a smile, giddy to be able to say such things openly. “A man will be straight with you, but a woman will act like she’s your best friend, or your mom, and then stab you in the back all the same. There’s just something evil about that, you know?”
“Indeed,” Tigera said, snatching up a scurrying beetle and watching it as it crawled over his knuckles. “So, tell me good sir. All these days we have sat here, but I still don’t know anything about you. What brings you here to Thesda?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Privet asked innocently. “I’m a Thesdan trader looking for investors for a new venture.”
“Oh, please,” Tigera moaned, rolling his eyes. “It’s completely obvious that you are a foreigner.”
“I’m insulted. Do I need to challenge you to defend my honor?” Privet deflected.
Tigera dropped the beetle and watched it scurry away. “First of all,” he began, “your accent in common is all wrong.”
“I went to private school in an eastern kingdom.”
“And you can’t conduct business without a trader’s license,” Tigera said, producing a bronze medallion with the Thesdan seal on it.
“My attaché has it at the moment.”
“And you are wearing your Thesdan poncho inside-out.”
Privet turned to face him, a look of shock on his face.
“The scratchy part goes on the outside,” Tigera explained with a grin. Privet chuckled and returned to his tea.
“So, why don’t we start with what you are doing here,” Tigera grinned.
“You’re awfully forward,” Privet quipped. “I’d rather hear more stories about your dog friend.”
“Don’t be so boring,” Tigera said, as a small bird flew in and landed on his shoulder and whispered to him. “I can only tell so many dog stories before I need a break.”
Privet set down his tea and looked into the rising mist; already the medicinal herbs were beginning to soothe his headache. Celamot, he had heard it called, a secret recipe for hangovers held by the ale guild. “I’ve been sent to track down a Naval officer, but she’s gone missing and no one knows where she is.”
“Ah,” Tigera said, stroking the bird’s tail feathers. “From your tone I suspect you have mixed feelings about her.”
“Yeah, she’s a real firecracker,” Privet commented. “The kind of girl that you don’t know whether to kiss or slap her.”
“A redhead, right?” Tigera guessed.
“Yeah,” Privet said, impressed. “How’d you know?”
“They’re all like that,” Tigera shrugged, waving his hand. “I think it’s because of their fair skin.”
“Why would that have anything to do with it?” Privet asked as he grabbed a pretzel.
“They get sunburned easily,” Tigera explained, grabbing some nuts out of a bowl. “You’d be irritable too if you spent most of your life with a sunburn.”
Privet chuckled and took a bite. “She is beautiful, though.”
“Of course she is,” Tigera agreed. “They always are, and a good thing they are, too. If all women had was their winning personalities to attract us, the races would have gone extinct ages ago.”
“Here’s your soup,” the barmaid said coldly as she set down the bowl in front of Tigera.
“Present company excepted, of course,” he said, grabbing a spoon.
“What do you mean ‘excepted’?” The barmaid called out gruffly as she entered the kitchen. “Are you saying I’m not charming?”
Privet and Tigera chuckled and sat quietly for a moment. The hustle and bustle of the outside markets was little more than a distant murmur through the thick adobe walls of the pub.
“So tell me,” Privet said, breaking the silence, “do you have plans for new gainful employment?”
“Ah, there’s always work for Hoeunites no matter where we are,” Tigera grumbled. “We’re the only people who can train Y’darni Stallions, so you can hardly throw a stone without hitting some nobleman who will take you in for a few months.”
“Ah, so you’re a Beastmaster,” Privet praised. “Must be nice, never having to worry about where your next meal will come from.”
“Hardly. Y'darni are nasty creatures. They’re bad-tempered and wickedly strong, with a will like iron and a stink like death.”
“I knew someone who owned a few of those stallions,” Privet interjected, “but they always smelled very pleasing, like spring flowers.”
“That’s because they were trained to release that scent. Naturally, they excrete scent as a defense mechanism.”
“Like a skunk,” Privet suggested.
“Yes...but a skunk can’t kill everything within fifty paces when it wants to.”
“Wow, sounds like dangerous work.”
“Not really,” Tigera sighed. “Y’darni naturally mimic their perceived elders. If you place an untrained stallion next to a trained one and let them work alongside each other the untrained one will pick everything up. Mostly, they teach each other.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t that mean you have to drag around a trained stallion with you?”
Tigera sat forward and grinned mischievously. He said, “Oh, come on, certainly you can give Hoeun magic more credit than that.” Tigera pulled out a small container from inside his shirt. It was round like a tobacco tin and when he opened it, it was cushioned on the inside with a gray moss. Lying on top of the moss, lazily, was a worm-shaped piece of metal. Or rather, what looked like a piece of metal. As Privet watched it stirred sleepily like a living thing, its surface rippling like a disturbed pond.
“It’s an alchemical creature,” Tigera boasted. “Among my tribes we call it an Afet. When it is placed inside a stallion it dissolves into the blood stream. We then use this Achete necklace of mine as a kind of input device. Whatever traits you want to integrate into the creature, you command into the necklace and it gradually infuses it into them. Docile, domestic, submissive, servile, you name it.”
“That’s incredible,” Privet said with open admiration. “I can see why your people are so highly sought after. Those little wormy things solve all your problems.”
“And yours, if you want them to,” Tigera said with a twinkle in his eye.
Privet smiled and took another sip of tea. “Are you telling me this could work on a person as well?”
“Officially, no, of course not,” Tigera defended with a grin. “But if someone knew how to make the proper adjustments to the alchemy, it is certainly possible.”
Privet knew exactly what he was offering, although he couldn’t guess how much it would cost him. He found the concept contemptible, even repugnant, but he kept it from showing on his face. If there was one thing a Wysterian man knew, it was how to hide his opinion of things.
Nevertheless, Privet took great pleasure in imagining what Athel could be like under the influence of such a thing. In his mind, he came home from a hard day’s work and threw the door open
to a rustic mountain hunting lodge.
“Welcome home, my dear husband,” Athel said timidly in his imagination, eyes down turned as she bowed, kneeling before him, the tips of her fingers touching the floor.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” he gently scolded. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.”
Athel bit her finger and turned her head to the side, blushing. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she simpered. “It’s just that I miss you so much when you’re gone, I can’t stand it.”
Privet smiled and bade her rise by gently placing his fingers underneath her chin. She straightened the apron she was wearing, and her blush grew even deeper from being so close to him.
“I have your dinner ready,” she said, “and I have drawn you a bath, so you may do whichever you wish first.”
Athel squeaked as he took her in his strong arms, and her body shuddered as he held her in a tight embrace.
“Hey, wake up!”
Privet snapped out of his daydream and looked around, trying to remember where he was. Tigera sat before him, a wicked grin on his face.
“You’ve got a little bit of drool coming off of your chin there,” he warned, and Privet wiped it off with the back of his hand.
* * *
The interior walls of the palace grew up out of the floor. White trees whose trunks had grown together until fusing into one, leaving only a pleasant seam and faint wood grain along the silky smooth surface. Above, rays of afternoon sunlight fell down between the roof of white flowers and petals, and doves sang happily as they perched in the spotlessly clean archways of living wood.
The ivory doors opened and Athel entered, flowers sprouting to life around her feet as she stepped lightly. Her flawless hair hung behind her like a bridal train, and scores of strong and nubile men rushed to greet her.
“I’ve peeled this bowl of grapes, my queen,” said the first, his muscles glistening in the descending sunlight. “Please, let me feed them to you.”
“You can peel grapes?” Athel asked, delighted.
“I’ve put silk sheets on your bed and scented them with lavender,” said the second man, bowing formally.
“I do like lavender.” Athel praised as a unicorn trotted by.
“I’ve drawn you a rose petal bath,” another husband said, his long ebony hair flowing over his strong shoulders, “and lit 365 candles, one for each day of the year I live to serve you.”
She sniffed the scented air and said, “Ooh, mulberry, my favorite.”
“Of course it is. Only the best for my queen,” the first assured.
Two men approached respectfully, carrying a gleaming silver tray covered with luscious food.
“Beautiful roasted quail smothered with cherry glaze and tapioca pudding,” one of them introduced.
“That’s just what I was in the mood for,” Athel squealed with delight.
The men stepped aside and revealed Privet, eyes down turned as he bowed, kneeling before her the tips of his fingers touching the floor.
“Please,” he begged, “I implore you to teach me that unbeatable saber technique that you invented.”
“Which one?” Athel asked as a peeled grape was placed in her mouth.
Privet bit his finger and turned his head to the side, blushing. “The Forsythian Counter,” he said. “I will never be able to face another opponent without it.”
Athel smiled and bade him rise by gently placing her fingers underneath his chin.
“Massage my feet and I shall consider it,” Athel said slyly.
“Happily, my lady,” Privet agreed, as she looked into his deep, penetrating eyes.
Athel was awakened from her dream by a soft knocking at the door and she shot up in her bunk, smacking her head into the railing. It took Athel a moment to realize where she was as she looked around sleepily, rubbing her forehead. She was in her bunk, and she could tell it was morning by the yellow light spilling in through the cracks in the improvised wall of her room. The air was unusually warm and humid, and outside she could hear the faint sounds of tropical birds.
Alder knocked quietly again and Athel called for him to enter as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Alder walked in carrying a covered tray which gave off the most bizarre scent. He greeted her warmly then lifted the metal lid to reveal an artfully arranged meal of roasted quail, covered in both a cherry glaze and tapioca pudding.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Athel huffed, looking at the tray before her.
“But, I could sense that this is what you wanted,” Alder explained politely.
“Why would I want something like that? It’s disgusting. Now, get out of here.”
“Of course my lady,” Alder said as he turned away, with a confused look on his face.
“But leave it by the door on your way out.”
“Of course my lady,” he said, a small smile appearing at the corners of his mouth.
“And I better not find any rose petals in my bath,” Athel called out as he set down the tray.
“I’ll go take them out,” he assured her as he left the room.
“And where did you get quail, anyway?”
After an unusual, but satisfying, breakfast of tapioca and cherry quail, Athel got dressed in her uniform and climbed up on deck, where a very pleasant tropical breeze was blowing. The Dreadnaught was moored about a mile inland, close enough to distantly hear the violent screams of the sea as it beat against the white sandy beaches, but not so close as to present any immediate danger. The air was warm and moist, and already Athel could hear the pleasantries of the surrounding palm trees as they greeted each other for the morning and shared gossip spreading from other parts of the island. Walking up to the bow, she placed a delicate hand on one of the exposed roots of the Lillian tree that had served as the ship’s sails for the past several days and asked Jas'ida if she had found a suitable spot. After exchanging warm farewells, Jas'ida told her exactly where she wanted to be and Athel raised her staff. The roots uncoiled themselves and the tree slipped down to the ground, where she propelled herself for several dozen yards before coming to a group of palms whose company she had enjoyed immensely since the ship had arrived. Her roots dug deep into the soft soil and sand, until finally they were sufficiently anchored, and Athel lowered her staff, saying a prayer of thanks to Milia.
“Wow, that was amazing!” Margaret beamed, slightly startling Athel. She hadn’t realized the young woman had been standing there. “I can hear all of their leaves rustling. Is that how they pray to you?”
“Pray to me?” Athel asked, her mood quickly souring. “No, that’s just the noise leaves make in the wind.”
“Oh, well then is it the thrum they make when the coconuts fall?”
“No, that’s just the sound coconuts make when they fall.”
“Well then, how do they worship you?” Margaret asked, her forehead furrowing on confusion.
“They don’t. I worship them. The life force inside a tree is a fragment of Milia’s Spirit. Tree spirits are eternal, spending time in one body before returning to her then breaking off again to be reborn as many times as she wishes.”
“So,” Margaret said, trying to adjust to the new information, “if they prayed to Milia, it would be like they’d be praying to themselves.”
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
“But as a woman you have part of Milia’s spirit inside of you,” Margaret affirmed, for once getting a detail correct. “So in a way, you are praying to yourself.”
“I guess so,” Athel admitted, realizing that she had never thought about it that way before.
Margaret beamed and took out a small notebook and began furiously scribbling, her large glasses falling down to the tip of her nose.
“I hope that’s not going in some kind of book,” Athel said warningly.
“You bet it is,” Margaret said, beaming. “Professor Ancorage is writing a new Wysterian sociology textbook for Thesda University, and all this research I’m doing will help him i
mmensely, since he’s never met a real Wysterian before.
Athel wasn’t sure she liked the idea of Margaret studying her. It felt like poise training all over again, being scrutinized by a room full of old people looking for any flaw they could as she did things like pick up a fork and light a candle.
Athel’s thoughts drifted back many years, and for a moment, she found herself back in the practice hall. Small slits had been grown in the walls, allowing perfectly level beams of sunlight to shine across the room. As she walked in her formal gown, Athel had to keep her shoulders and hips perfectly aligned with the horizontal beams, while making sure that her dress did not fan out beyond the limits of the vertical beams as she greeted the stoic statues of dignitaries lined up along the walls. Athel could remember the anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface as she smiled and made polite conversation with each statue, counting the number of syllables she used, making sure to end every phrase on an eighth count to keep time with the music playing in the background. Keeping her toes perfectly aligned at the proper angles, even though no one could ever see them beneath her gown, was particularly difficult at times. Her neck and jaw ached as she reached the final statue, number 64, the sacred number of Milia, for eight times eight counts she recited her royal lineage, praising each successor to the throne in turn and highlighting their successes. With a perfectly angled bow, Athel turned to leave the hall, the hem of her gown fanning out two inches too far, passing over a beam of light. The flicker of light was caught by the mistress judge standing at the far end, who held up a red card. Athel could feel it rise long before she turned around to see it elevated above the woman’s aged head. Athel’s exhausted body collapsed to the floor and she wept bitterly, for it would be two more long years of training before she could test for graduation again.
Athel’s thoughts were interrupted by warm breath on the back of her neck. She jumped instinctively and spun around, drawing out her pistol but finding only a startled Margaret looking back at her.
“Um, I’m sorry,” the blonde woman stuttered, obviously not accustomed to having a gun leveled at her. “It’s just that you were standing there sleeping with your eyes open or something, and I wanted to ask you about something but I didn’t want to wake you up.”